


Stripes

by remanth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is wounded in a chase and John cares for him. He inadvertently tells his flatmate how he really feels about him</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stripes

Two exhausted men limped their way up the stairs to 221B. They had just finished a wild chase through the streets of London and caught a murderer, though both had been harmed in the process. John was limping, his left ankle sprained from landing wrong after jumping a fence. Sherlock grimaced, his hand running across his back. He had tripped, tripped, and slammed into a metal fence. The bars had left stripes across his back, the bruising aching as his shirt brushed it.

"Let's not do that again for a while, Sherlock," John said, heading to the kitchen to make tea.

"I heartily concur," Sherlock groaned, easing his coat off. The lost weight was enough to calm the ache in his back and he sat down in his armchair. He forgot about the scarf and flipped through the paper. He took the cup of tea absently as John walked back in and handed it to him. The doctor groaned as he eased himself down into his own chair.

"Anything interesting in the news?" John asked sardonically. He knew most things in the paper Sherlock would find dull and repetitive. The detective grunted in answer and flipped another page. He hid a grimace behind the paper, not wanting John to see him in pain. John chuckled and drank his own tea. They sat in a companionable silence until a thoughtless move from Sherlock startled a moan out of the detective.

"Sherlock?" John asked immediately, looking worried. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing John," Sherlock mumbled, trying to find a more comfortable position to sit in. His back brushed against the chair hard and he moaned again.

"It's not nothing," John said, putting his tea down. "You're hurt." Sherlock shook his head stubbornly and tried to hide his head in the paper. The doctor stood over Sherlock and took the paper gently from him. He smiled fondly at Sherlock and folded the paper.

"I saw you trip," John said. "I didn't say anything at the time because you darted off too fast, but it must have hurt hitting that fence. Let me see?" Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at the smiling doctor.

"It's nothing," Sherlock repeated. "Just some bruising. It'll heal on its own." John shook his head and moved to stand behind Sherlock. He gently unwound the scarf from Sherlock's neck and Sherlock shivered. John didn't often touch him. He leaned back unconsciously, trying to get closer to John, and hissed. The bruises hurt and now he could feel a soft warmth trickling down his back.

John pushed Sherlock forward with his hands high on his shoulders. He could see blood starting to stain the silk shirt the detective wore and now he was really worried. He reached around Sherlock's shoulders and started unbuttoning the shirt. He felt the detective tense and he chuckled.

"Relax, Sherlock," John said. "I just need to see your back. Can't treat you through the shirt." His face turning red, Sherlock batted John's hands away and finished unbuttoning his shirt himself. He shrugged out of it, hissing again in pain. Though better the pain than the confusion in his thoughts. He heard John suck in a startled breath and turned to look at him.

"God, Sherlock," John whispered. "How did you keep running like that?" He stared at the red and black marks on the detective's pale back, long furrows running lengthwise down his back. They were puffy and some were bleeding, the blood trickling down to stain the chair. Apparently, there were some sharp edges on the fence.

"It wasn't important," Sherlock replied. "The murderer was getting away so I deleted the pain."

"Well, that's all fine and wonderful," John said sarcastically. "But you are letting me treat that now. Stay leaning forward on your knees. Don't let anything brush those wounds." He walked into the kitchen and filled a clean bowl with lukewarm water. He grabbed a dishtowel and, after making sure it hadn't been used for any experiments, headed back out to his flatmate. Sherlock was indeed sitting with his elbows resting on his knees, glaring at the floor. John couldn't help but smile at the sight. Sherlock listening was a rare and precious moment.

"I'm just going to clean the blood and dirt off," the doctor explained. "It's going to hurt now but will feel better. Then I'll bandage it for you." Sherlock waved a hand as if to say "Get on with it already." John moved behind him and dipped the cloth. Wringing it out, he laid it gently on Sherlock's back and started rubbing the blood away. He moved slowly, taking about half an hour for the blood to stop and to fully clean Sherlock's back. The detective had finally stopped hissing and groaning in pain, the feeling smoothed away by John's gentle hands. Sherlock let his eyes close, allowing himself a few moments in a quiet fantasy.

John stood awed at the trust Sherlock was putting in him. Granted, he was the only one in the flat but Sherlock would have gone without getting treated rather than allow someone to touch him. He ran the cloth gently over Sherlock's back, entranced by the play of muscles under the skin. The sight of the red and black stripes made him angry and the blood made him see red. Dropping the red-stained cloth, John let his fingers run over Sherlock's back. He soothed the red marks, massaging gently. Surrendering to impulse, John leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on the back of Sherlock's neck. He straightened hurriedly, blushing, when Sherlock gasped.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"All right, done," John said, false confidence in his voice. What was he doing, kissing Sherlock Holmes? The man who was married to his work? John picked up the bowl and carried it to the kitchen, dumping the bloody water down the sink. He dropped the dishtowel in the hamper and stood next to the table. He berated himself some more and pushed all his emotions back down. He looked into the living room and saw Sherlock still sitting in the same position.

"I'll just grab the bandages," John said and escaped to his bathroom. He grabbed the medkit he stored under the sink and grabbed gauze and tape. Marching back into the living room, he stood behind Sherlock again and sternly ordered his hands to behave. He wrapped the gauze around Sherlock's back and chest and secured it with the tape. He patted Sherlock's shoulder when he was done and jumped when the detective's hand latched onto his own.

"You kissed me," Sherlock said quietly, not looking at John. John gulped and sighed.

"Yes," he said. "It was an impulse, I'm sorry. It won't happen again." He tried to pull his hand away, to clean up the mess that was left. Sherlock's grip tightened and he pulled John closer to him.

"Don't be sorry," Sherlock said. "Do it again. Please?"


End file.
